


Easy

by hardlyfatal



Series: Find Love Here [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Bachelorette Party, F/M, Minor Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Minor Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark, Mistaken Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 20:14:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13131303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hardlyfatal/pseuds/hardlyfatal
Summary: Easy? There was nothing easy about any of this.Okay, that was a lie. She was feeling very easy indeed with this man. If he'd asked her to have sex in that very moment, Brienne would not be able to swear in court with any honesty that she would not have agreed.She was fairly certain, in fact, thatshe'dbe the one propositioninghim.





	Easy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BlackFlashlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackFlashlight/gifts).



> This is BlackFlashlight's Secret Santa gift. Her prompt words were anger, mud, and striptease. I... didn't quite get there, 100%, but maybe the inclusion of Neurotic!Brienne's inner monologue and Jaime being a perv will make up for the lack? In any case, Happy Christmakwanzakkah!

The doorbell sounded, sooner than Brienne had expected, and she blew out a huge sigh of relief. Arya had been put in charge of booking the stripper for Sansa’s bachelorette party, regrettably, with the predictable result that she had forgotten completely. She had tried to convince Brienne that her own boyfriend, Gendry, would pinch-hit but Brienne put her size-thirteen foot down.

No, they were not getting Arya's attractive-but-not-a-dancer-and-it-showed boyfriend to substitute-strip. The band of drunken women currently lurching about the Starks’ living room in thigh-skimming bathrobes and clay mud masks (the first half of the evening being an indulgent spa experience, complete with pedicures and facials) would likely tear him to pieces— they needed a pro with experience in fending off groping hands and evading attempts to pluck his g-string, or the entire party would descend into chaos.

Well, _more_ chaos.

The whole catastrophe had begun when Margaery, in charge of catering, had decided that the ideal buffet table for the sushi bar was a person. An attractive nude male person, in point of fact. Olyvar was quite a nice fellow, Brienne had learned upon chatting with him while selecting Godzilla roll off his left thigh. A bit young for her taste, even though she suspected they were around the same age.

Amazing how a few pertinent life choices could send people veering down drastically different paths. Brienne, at twenty-seven years of age, was on the very cusp of completing her doctorate in Targaryen-era history. Olyvar, just a year younger, was on the very cusp of revealing whether or not he’d been circumcised (depending on how popular the California roll was that evening).

Ah, the mysteries of life, how entrancing they could be.

Brienne heaved to her feet, giving her too-brief robe a fierce tug, and shot Arya a warning glance that she hoped communicated to the girl “keep an eye on everything in here and don’t let Olenna near the sushi boy again”. Olyvar still looked a little traumatized from the last time the elder Tyrell had gone for more spicy tuna roll.

Barefoot, Brienne padded to the foyer and discreetly wiped a glob of mud up from where it had begun trickling ever-closer to her ‘cleavage’ (even in her mind, she gave the term air-quotes) while yanking open the door.

Before her stood the best-looking human Brienne had ever seen in her life. He was just about her height, so when she stared witlessly at him in gobsmacked silence for far too long, the witless staring was directly into his extraordinary green eyes.

Those extraordinary green eyes widened at the sight of her, _and no surprise_ , Brienne thought wryly. She was no beauty queen even when not slathered in gray mud; she could only imagine the horror when she was.

 _Always doomed to the terrible first impression_ , she sighed mentally. Not that there was any point to a good first impression, or second, or third, since this ethereally-handsome creature was probably wondering at that very moment how in the hell he could share a plane of existence with such as Brienne.

(The ethereally-handsome creature was, in fact, wondering at that very moment how eyes could get so blue and if the scantily-clad giantess at the door would find it creepy if he asked to just stare at said eyes for a week or two.)

“That was faster than I thought,” Brienne said approvingly. That stripper agency was to be commended for its speed as well as the superlative quality of its dancers, if this fellow was any indication. “Except…”

Far be it from her to try to find fault with him— he was flawless, as far as she could tell— but he wasn’t what she had ordered. She’d asked for a big, brawny, rugged stripper in a blue-collar-type getup. Construction worker would be best, since Sansa’s fiancé was himself a contractor, but Brienne would have accepted a cop, or fireman, or soldier.

This guy was tall but not bulky, with the leanly muscled build of either a runner or tennis player. He wore a beautifully-tailored suit under his expensive-looking wool overcoat, and if that weren’t a $400 haircut, she’d eat his pinstriped silk tie. He was gorgeous but not rugged, instead having the finely-cut features of a thousand years of aristocrats feverishly breeding with the ultimate goal, presumably, being to produce _him_.

“Oh, you’re all wrong for this,” she muttered crossly. But at such short notice… “No, no, you’ll be fine, I’ll just find you something else to wear— does Ned have a toolbelt? Come in, come in.”

He stared at her for a moment before speaking. “I— okay.”

Oh, he had a lovely voice, just the sort of thing to rumble obscenities into a girl’s ear during sex. Brienne stepped aside to permit him entrance. When he walked past her, she caught a whiff of him, or his aftershave, and felt her knees melt the slightest bit. He smelled like pine trees.

Brienne _loved_ the smell of pine trees.

A _lot_.

It truly hit her, then: this gorgeous man was going to strip for them. She felt a little light-headed at the notion, and swayed a bit, reaching out for the doorknob to stabilize herself.

 _Steady on,_ she thought, but in the back of her mind, she was already counting how many single dollar bills she had. And if she had time to nip out to the bank to get change for a fifty.

 _Or a hundred_ , she mentally corrected, ogling him some more.

She gulped and swore a solemn vow to keep her shit together for just another hour or two. And then, at the end of the night and possibly a quite a few singles poorer, she’d collapse into bed and use up the three D batteries it took to power her vibrator. Fantasizing about this guy would totally be worth another five bucks in Duracells.

“I’m sure I have something you can change into that’ll be more suitable,” she told him kindly, or at least she hoped it was kindly and not a true expression of how she was feeling, which was ferociously horny. It would not do to drool. It would leave tracks in her mud. “Please follow me.”

He just blinked at her, but there was something about the set of his mouth that spoke of amusement, barely contained. She clenched her molars and turned away to lead him toward her bedroom with only the _slightest_ bit of a huff, irritated to be laughed at. Though, she considered, if ever there were a time when laughing at her were justified, this was it.

 _Relax, lighten up, be loose, be happy, be chill,_ she admonished herself. She’d leave him to change into whatever sort of outfit she could cobble together for him, then run back to the other women to tell them to wash the mud off their faces and prepare to be stripped in front of. He’d dance, she’d get a nosebleed and stuff her rent money down his g-string, she’d eat more sushi off poor chilly Olyvar, everyone would leave, and she could go the fuck to bed and exhaust those batteries.

In the spare bedroom in which Brienne was living for this week of nuptial festivities, she flung open the closet door. Catelyn used it as a storage area for holiday supplies, and it burgeoned with wrapping paper, huge inflatable lighting-up Halloween and Christmas figures, and various costumes. She found, and disregarded, a can-can dancer dress, a ring master outfit, a clown onesie big enough to fit Hodor— and wasn’t _that_ a horror to think about— and a sparkly mermaid tail complete with seashell boob-covers.

“Well, hell,” she grumbled. “Hm, I bet you could wear a pair of my jeans, your shirt—” she swung around to peer at his chest and found he was wearing a pristine white Oxford under his dark gray suit “—yes, that’ll be okay, I suppose… Ned might have a tool belt, but I’m sure no construction hat.” She swept a discerning eye over him from top to toe. “It’ll lack something without the hat.”

“Yes, the hat brings a certain je-ne-sais-quoi,” he murmured agreeably. That lingering sense that he was about ten seconds from braying with laughter at her expense flared again and she scowled at him, only to be met with glinting green eyes and a far-too-innocent smile. Brienne managed to suppress another huff and turned back to the closet.

“Oh!” She spied, in the back corner, on the floor, a cowboy hat and bent over to reach in for it. “Maybe there’s a gun belt in here, too—”

A choking sound had her yanking her torso back out of the closet, standing and whipping around to face him. “What’s the matter?” she asked, aware belatedly that her voice had gone all throaty and weird.

The gorgeous stripper’s face had flushed a becoming pink across his cut-glass cheekbones, and those emerald eyes were open wide. His lips were parted and as she watched, mesmerized, his tongue darted out to wet them. Brienne swallowed heavily.

“Nothing. Nothing at all.” His voice had gone throaty as well. She hoped he wasn’t developing a chest cold. If he spread his germs all over the assembled women, the wedding in two days would be decimated. Brienne never got sick— she had the constitution of a whole herd of oxen— but everyone else would, including the bride, and the idea of a sniffling, red-nosed Sansa trudging up the aisle to wed her surly Clegane was not to be borne.

So she squinted closely at him for other signs of illness, but apart from just being unfairly good-looking, there was nothing.

“Hmf,” she said. “Well, you can’t be a cowboy with just a hat. Bad enough you won’t have the boots.” She squinted at the collection of shoes in the closet. There were a pair of biker boots that might substitute in a pinch. “You have to at least have the gun belt.”

“I bet there’s one right where the hat was,” he said encouragingly. “I’m sure I saw one. You should look for it. Very carefully.”

Brienne was positive he was teasing her somehow, but couldn’t figure out how. She slanted him a narrow glance, which seemed to amuse him highly, and went back to digging through the detritus on the closet floor.

“Where did you say you saw the gun belt?” she demanded, her voice muffled by the mermaid tail flopping over her head.

“On the floor,” he replied, sounding a trifle breathless. “In the back corner. You’ll have to really stretch for it.”

Brienne frowned as she reached and rummaged, but let out a cry of triumph when, at last, she closed her hand around the barrel of a plastic revolver, cheaply chromed and holstered in a pleather gun belt. But when she went to stand up again, she almost lost her balance.

“Help me out of here!” she said, reaching back her other hand with a laugh. He grasped it and hauled her from the closet, with such force that she stumbled back and fell against him. He instantly steadied her, arms coming around her waist. Against her ass, she could feel a formidable erection.

“Easy,” he murmured into her ear, the heat of his breath sending a cascade of shivers up her neck.

 _Easy?_ There was nothing easy about any of this.

Okay, that was a lie. She was feeling very easy indeed with this man. If he’d asked her to have sex in that very moment, Brienne would not be able to swear in court with any honesty that she would not have agreed.

She was fairly certain, in fact, that she’d be the one propositioning _him_.

“What the hell,” she said weakly. “You… you can’t go out there like…”

“Like what?” His arms were still around her. One was edging up and the other, down, as if his hands were making a run for her naughty bits and though she was trying her best, she was having trouble mustering up any protest at that.

“Like… that,” she concluded lamely.

“Like what?” he asked again. One hand was curved over her ribcage, in worryingly close proximity to her breast. Just an inch higher, just the rotation of his wrist a few degrees, and the slight mound of flesh would be cupped in his big, warm palm.

“ _Hard_ ,” she whispered. “You can’t go out there hard.” In response to her words, she felt him growing, somehow, even harder. And bigger. Thicker. Desire stabbed her right in the solar plexus. “Why are you so _hard_?”

“Because that robe is a lot shorter than you think it is,” was his reply, “your panties are very small, and your legs and ass are the things dreams are made of.”

Brienne swallowed. “This is too weird, even for me. You—” Her words caught in her throat when, very delicately, he pressed himself against her butt. “I have to go.”

His lips, warm and soft, touched the side of her throat, just under her ear. Brienne had never realized that there was a nerve directly connected between that spot and her groin, but if the bolt of lightning that shot between the two locations was any indication, such a nerve definitely existed. 

“So go.”

And she could have gone. He was holding her so lightly, even frail little Olenna could have broken free of his grasp (though the canny old bat would already have had him sprawled out over the bed, half-naked, by that point). But Brienne's limbs didn’t appear to be obeying the mental commands she was sending them, to push free of his arms, to walk her out of the room. Though the mental commands were half-hearted at best, she had to admit.

“This is impossible,” she told him. “I can’t have sex with a stripper in the middle of a bachelorette party.”

“Hm,” he said. “About that.”

“Brienne!” shrieked Arya from somewhere in the house, startling Brienne enough to break free of the stripper’s evilly seductive embrace. “Is the stripper here? I’ve got Gendry on speed-dial, just say the word.”

“Yes, he’s—” she began to call back, but the stripper’s hand came to cover her mouth.

“I’m not actually a stripper,” he said.

“What?” Brienne spun around to face him, prying his hand away. “You’re not a stripper? Who _are_ you, then?”

“Jaime. The best man, in quite a few ways.” He looked down at his hand, the palm smeared with half-dry mud, before looking back up at her with a far-too-seductive grin. “It’s _very_ nice to meet you.”


End file.
